


Last Dinner at Gusteau’s

by stephensmat



Category: Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Comfort Food, Cooking, F/M, Heartwarming, Missing Scene, POV First Person, Spoilers, two perspectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephensmat/pseuds/stephensmat
Summary: When Anton leaves Gusteau's, Colette and Linguini are getting ready to close up for the night. But after a stressful day, and disaster ahead, you cannot leave your favorite kitchen while still hungry. And they have a lot to talk about.(Missing Scene. Spoilers for the movie.)





	Last Dinner at Gusteau’s

**Author's Note:**

> I re-read my other Ratatouille fic, Favorite Flavors, and decided that I was not satisfied with it. So I went back to the drawing board and started again. I was hoping to improve upon the original, and discovered that instead, I wrote a new story.

 

 

_**Colette:** _

* * *

It did not come as a surprise. It was an insane night. I came back to the kitchen, and found an army of rats crawling over… Everything! Every bench! Every  _bowl_! Bowls with  _ **food**_  in them!

If 102 pounds of lovesick dope hadn't landed on me so suddenly I probably would have puked on them.

I kept the bile down and started chopping when a Health Inspector was calmly carried in on a carpet of rat and thrown into the cold room.

I kept slicing vegetables without missing a beat. It was a dream or I was mad, so what did it matter?

And then to top off the evening, Linguini wanted to introduce _Le Petite Chef_ to the Dark Lord Anton Ego himself!

I was still mad at him. I thought this idea was madness, and I let him know it. Anton Ego was not a good sport. Anton Ego destroyed Gusteau, and in my view, killed him!

Linguini spells out the whole story. Parts of it I recognize...

"Thank you for the meal." Ego says calmly, and stalks out like a wraith. How does that man cast shadows in every direction?!

My hands were shaking. I handle boiling oil and atom-sharp knives for a living and my hands were shaking.

The rats are gone. All but two. A big grey one and a brown one that has matted fur. I get the sense that they were waiting for  _petite chef_  to finish for the night, and the three of them just calmly walk out the door, like they own the place.

Heh. Maybe they do. At least they had a staff at work tonight. More than I can say for the humans involved.

Leaving me with Linguini. We tidy up. The rats did a pretty good job cleaning up after themselves, but there were still chairs to stack out in the restaurant, counters to wipe down, glasses to wash behind the bar...

We finish by turning out the lights in the kitchen, and Linguini is staring at the Cool Room, and its two prisoners. We can't put it off any longer.

For the first time tonight... we have to actually talk to each other.

* * *

"Colette..." He starts awkwardly.

"We have to kill the Health Inspector." I say sharply. I don't mean it. Not really. Not much. But it kept us from having to start the conversation. "Skinner too."

Linguini's eyes get real big suddenly. Clearly he thinks I mean it. " _What_?!"

"We can't let them out! If those two get away and tell people that we had a billion rats running around on countertops in here, that's the end of us!"

His face collapses. "It is?"

I suddenly realize how he must have taken that. "No, not  _us_! US! The restaurant! The others have walked out!  _We're_  the restaurant now! Us and the Night of the Living  **Vermin**!"

"Hey!" Linguini snaps. "One of those 'Vermin' is my friend and the one who took me from the Alley behind the dumpster to the Manager's Office here!"

I jerk. Whoa. The man had a backbone after all.

But not for himself. He stood up to me for Little Chef. He stood up to High Executioner Anton Ego for Little Chef.

And then he threw Little Chef out on his tail... for  _me_.

The second I realized that... I knew we were going to be okay.

So sure in fact, that I decided to have a little fun. I yank out my biggest sharpest knife, make a point of sliding a sharpening rod along the edge with a deathly screech of metal, and stalk my way toward the Cool Room, knife drawn. "To protect the restaurant! To protect Little Chef!  **Skinner And The Health Inspector Must**   **Die**!"

Linguini comes after me, trips on nothing and recovers himself, wringing his hands. "Yeah, but... I mean... oh, gosh I'm going to be on the news again!" He seems so miserable.

I decide to take pity on him and cover his lips with one finger. "I'm kidding,  _mon_   _cher_."

He relaxes. "Oh. Good." He clears his throat. "But... I mean, what are we going to say to them? I mean... what are we going to do?"

I sigh. "I don't know." I open the door to the cool room. I slide the knife into those ropes and slice the Health Inspector free.

He reaches up and grabs the gag in his mouth. "R-r-r-r-r-r..." He babbles.

"Rats?" Linguini fills in the word for him.

" _RA-A-A-ATS_!  **Millions**  of-of-of RATS!" He screeches.

I nod. "Yep."

He jumps up and starts screaming. "AAAAAAAAGH!"

He's out the door so fast i can barely follow the movement.

Leaving us in the room with Skinner.

I glare at him so hard I swear I could set him on fire if I focused my eyes just right. "Alfredo, give me a minute with him."

"…uh." Linguini says eloquently.

"Now."

Linguini backs out of the room slowly. He shuts the door.

I pick up my former employer by the collar and anger gives me more than enough strength to haul him up, getting right in his face. "You did this. You made the call. You stole Gusteau's from me. I hate you!"

Skinner starts mumbling. I pull the gag down. "The rat did this! Not me! I-I-I-I Was just here because… beca- Colette did you  _see_  the kitchen tonight?! Enough rats to get two grown men taken prisoner! Whatever you do; and whatever you do to me, you're finished.  **Merde**! How did you let him do this to MY kitchen?! I was gone for only a few weeks Col-"

I raise the knife up to a perfect stabbing height and hold it there. Skinner's eyes get big as saucers as he's suddenly aware he's a dead man.

I never miss with a knife. The carving knife is always kept perfectly sharp, and I bring it slashing down. The ropes part like butter. Who would have thought those little paws could be so good with knots?

He's four foot nothing. The very definition of a Napoleon Complex. I put him against the shelves and glare. "Run a thousand miles. Do that again tomorrow. Do it again the next day. If you're very lucky, I won't be there to make you  **beg**  for what Horst's thumbs can do to you instead." I drop him to the tiles.

Skinner takes my advice and runs for it.

I stop and gather myself. The knife slips from my hand, and the room blurs a little as hot tears fill my eyes. But I squeeze them back. I'm stronger than that. I am the toughest chef in a kitchen full of Con Men, Resistance Fighters and Ex-Convicts. I don't cry just because...

Just because Gusteau's Restaurant is finished.

I break down in open tears for the first time since Gusteau died. I lean against the shelves and my sides shake as I try to keep it quiet.

After a while, Linguini edges in. He puts a hand on my shoulder so lightly I'm barely aware of it. When I realize he's there, I push him away, cross to the other end of the room and start slamming the stainless steel refrigerator with my fists. It feels good so I start kicking it too.

I exhaust myself pretty quickly and bow my head weakly.

"Colette... I'm sorry." he whispers.

I shake my head without turning around. "Not you. This. I'm... I'm  _scared_." I whisper. "I'm sorry. I get the most angry when I'm scared." I'm raging at myself in my head.  _ **Why**  am I telling him this!?_

"Yeah?"

"Every fight we've ever had... was when I was scared you were going to replace me." I'm raging at myself in my head.  _ **Why**  am I telling him this!?_

Linguini replays the fights we have had in his head. " _Cherie_... I could  _never_ replace you." He whispers. "I can't even cook."

My stomach rumbles loudly.

He smirks a little. "Could you eat anything today?"

_Eat? Eat food when Ego was coming to review our cooking?_  I shake my head. "Too nervous."

"Me too."

"You want to get something to eat?"

Beat.

I'm suddenly aware of the fact that this place might be closed by tomorrow morning. This may be my last time in Gusteau's. I can't leave this kitchen while hungry.

I turn around and start pulling pans off shelves. "Let's make something. One last dinner at Gusteau's."

Linguini ducks into his shoulders. "If you want it to be a good one, you'll have to cook."

I sniff. Linguini can't cook. It's a crazy sort of day I'm having. The man can't cook. A Garbage Boy walked in off the street, made something fantastic without being asked, and turned out to be the heir to the Chef himself… and he can't cook. So all those times he got into a showdown with Skinner or me about what to put on the plate, it was coming from the rat in his  _toque_. If I wasn't so scared, I'd laugh hysterically.

Instead, I look around. Just us and the ingredients. Vegetables, cheeses, herbs, meats... I wonder how many of them have tiny little rodent paw prints on them?

I shake that thought off and head out into the kitchen.

Linguini follows me. I head out into the restaurant for a moment and collect a pair of tall stools from the bar, and a bottle of white wine. I bring them back to the kitchen, and set them, one on either side of a clean stainless steel counter. Linguini sits, and I take the other side of the counter. I pull one of the rolling counters over to give myself room.

* * *

_**Linguini:** _

* * *

She turns on the lights over one of the gas burners. The stove lights are bright yellow instead of the fluorescents. It's gives of a warm yellow glow over the two of us, the rest of the kitchen faded into the background.

"What are you making?"

She looks surprised. She still hasn't quite gotten used to the fact that I can't make cereal without burning something.

" _Filet de Boeuf ala Bourgeouse."_ Colette says quietly. "Your father taught it to me. My first night here."

My father. A man I had never known. He was so much a part of my world the last few weeks, and I never even knew his name until I got here. Never even learned he existed until the night mom died.

Colette noticed my existence on this planet because of the Soup Little Chef made. That same week, I was freshly an orphan, straight off the train into Paris, living in a one room dump that smelled of mildew, paid for by the last of my mom's savings, begging for a job emptying bins into a dumpster, and glad for it.

Colette made it all worth it. Maybe she never wanted to be stuck with me, but all the things I know about food (All three of them) I learned from her. And I think she liked teaching me. I think she liked showing me all the things she cared about. I think that... I think that she'd never had anyone to talk to either.

Things were tense between Colette and I, once I started getting noticed by the customers. I think she liked me, but saw me as the opposition. Someone who would take the credit and leave her behind. Just like all the other men in this kitchen. It suddenly occurs to me, that finding out I  _wasn't_  a chef might make her a little more relaxed about me.

But without that, what chance do I have?

I shake myself out of this. I learned a long time ago that if you let yourself think too long about things, your thoughts will turn to darkness on their own.

Instead, I focus on her.

I cannot stop my eyes from fixating on her hands. They glide over the ingredients. She never measures anything, she just...  _knows_.

She is aware of my scrutiny. She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she edges over closer to me, stirring away at a little bowl, mixing a sauce of some kind...

"Would you turn on the burner for me? Keep it low."

"Uh, sure." I go and find the stove lighter. The gas ring is set into the bench we're sitting at and I turn it on. I light it up and turn the heat down low. I move to put the gas lighter back, and my other hand brushes past the gas ring as I lean. "OW!"

Colette sets down her knife and takes my hand without missing a beat. She pulls my hand over to the sink, and starts the cold water on it. "It's not bad."

"Sorry."

"Every chef does this,  _mon cheri._  Heat and knives. Comes with the apron. Do it with melting caramel and you'll hit bone. That's why we never notice how hot things get. We're used to it."

"One of the hardest parts in this whole business was learning not to flinch when Little Chef got too close to the burners." I say. "Should we get the first aid kit?"

" _Non_." Colette says calmly. "I'll take care of it."

She takes me back over to the counter with our stools, and pulls the stopped back off the bottle of Olive Oil and started rubbing it over the burn on my hand.

I am suddenly not breathing.  _Mon Dieu._  I can't tell if the oil is so soft, or if it's her hands.

She keeps going with the oil until it's rubbed in like an ointment, and she releases me, moving back to the mixing bowl and her ingredients. "Do you know the story of where Olive Oil came from?" She murmurs, sliding a pan over the burner I started.

"No." I answer.

Colette starts to tell the story as the pan heats and the olives are sliced. I emerge from my own thoughts and time seems to move again as she speaks. Her voice is low and I lean in to hear her. I am infinitely aware just how close we are to each other.

"The Greeks believed that the Olive Tree was a gift from Athena, Goddess of Wisdom. She and Poseidon competed with each other over patronage of the city of Attica. Athena challenged Poseidon, to give the mortals a great gift, and so would she. The better gift would be judged by the people, and the winner would get the city. Poseidon created the war horse, powerful and swift and helped make the Grecian Empire. But Athena planted the first Olive Tree, which grew and the olive seeds grew more. The olive was used for food, the threes for timber and fire and heat, Olive oil was used for cooking, and for medicine, and for perfume, and for trade. The whole world came to value it as equal to the fines wines… The people rejoiced at the gift, and ruled that Athena's was the victor, thanking her endlessly. They say that the Olive tree which grows at the top of the acropolis; even today, is the original tree she planted. And that's why the Greek Capital is now called Athens, in honor of the Goddess of all wisdom."

She finishes the story by pouring a measure of the Olive Oil into the pan, and the sizzle of it explodes the quiet world of our own. My senses are suddenly filled with fantastic aromas. Olive oil heating, the butter melting, the scallions and shallots... I can't tell them apart. I can't tell  _any_ of the ingredients apart. When I eat it, I won't be able to dissect the flavors like she can...

Colette puts the pan on the heat and leaves it to simmer. Leaving us looking at each other. We're opposite each other, with the oven to one side, and the sink to the other.

Colette suddenly reaches out and takes my hand. "Why didn't you  _tell_ me?"

I can't look at her. "I wanted to. Even tried to. But I thought... if I did then you would..."

She looks so sad. "You  _hurt_ me."

It feels like a punch in the head. Colette was expressing hurt. Hurt. Not anger, not frustration, not even sadness. She was  _hurt_. "I know. And I'm sorry." I lick my lips. "You told me once, that if you only cared for yourself, you would have let me down. But you wanted me to succeed."

She nods. "I remember."

So do I. Our first kiss. "I... I wanted Little Chef to succeed. I liked being here. I was never trying to... I didn't want to hurt anyone, but... once it started, how could I stop it?"

I'm still not looking at her. She reaches out and pulls my chin up to face her gently. For the third time tonight I'm aware of how close she is.

"You took such a risk. If Skinner had found out!"

"I know."

"He would have thrown you into the gutter, left you with nothing and been glad to be rid of you."

I hang my head. "I've been there before."

I see a wave of sympathy go through her eyes. She leans forward and gives me a gentle kiss. Time stops again.

* * *

  _ **Colette:**_

* * *

I break the kiss. How does this man always make me do that? It can't just be because he's got that cute 'lost puppy' feel about him. I've never acted like this before. Never wanted to look after someone before... How does he bring this out in me?

"Forgive me?" He whispers.

"Since the moment I turned around and came back." I promise him.

The moment hangs, and the hurt feelings are healing. He still has that hangdog look on his face. Like he's expecting me to slap him just for the hell of it. Now that I think about it, I was always the same way with men. Always looking for the inevitable snap-back.

I guess if life smacks you down enough times, you come to expect it.

How about that? We're the same after all.

I break the moment, and open the white wine. A generous splash of it into the pan, and the aromas fill the area. He watches me with open fascination. I remember what I said to him, about how cooking in a restaurant wasn't 'like with mommy in the kitchen'. It suddenly occurs to me that if he's not a chef... the way he watches me is so... endearing. When you do something a thousand times you get very good at it, and don't even realize how naturally the movements come to you.

"Do you know, this was the first meal I ever cooked in this Kitchen?" I volunteer. Another first. I'm not one to talk about the past very often.

"Really?"

I nod and start laying out the ingredients for a side salad. "I made it for The Chef himself. That man could probably taste individual grains of salt if he wanted to."

"Mom could too." Linguini says softly. "She tried to teach me, but I'm... well, a threat to the kitchen staff when I don't have a rat in my hair." He smiles. "Mom was the best cook I ever knew," His eyes bulge suddenly and he clarifies. "Except for Little Chef and you."

Ooh, comparing a chef to the way mother used to make. Highest compliment a customer can pay.

So I continue the story. "Guste-" I interrupt myself. "Your father was testing me. Wanted to see what I could do."

Linguini stared. "What happened?"

It suddenly hits me that Skinner turned Gusteau's face into a thousand frozen TV dinners. His name was hardly mentioned by the staff any more, who hated what Skinner was doing with the Chef's Legacy. Alfredo didn't come till years later. I know this man's father better than he does.

So I decide to tell him the story. "He tasted it, and promptly tossed it out."

Linguini blinks. "Really? Why?"

I shrug. "It wasn't very good. Oh, it was great for home, great for a meal. But cooking in a five star restaurant... People experiment their whole lives to get good enough. And then you have to be able to recreate your success exactly; night after night after night."

Linguini nods sagely.

"So I'm standing there, with the spoon in my hand, and my first night in the restaurant, the Chef throws my first dish in the trash. I was waiting to be kicked out, but Gu-" I catch myself. "Your father... he told me to meet him after the restaurant closed, and I did. He sat me down, and we spent half the night trying new things, cooking longer or hotter, more olive oil, adding garlic. While we were cooking, he told me all these amazing little anecdotes about his career. And he taught me all the tricks. Some of them I taught you, like about the bread and bribing growers..."

I'm smiling at the memory. Gusteau believed in me. It's been years since he died, but I still miss my great mentor.

"The last one we made, I suggested we add thyme. He didn't agree, but he said that a chef has to be bold. So we tried it. It was 3am by that point. When we tried the last one, it was delicious. Gusteau told me to come back the next night and make it for the rest of the staff. They tried it. It was that week's Chef's Special."

He smiles. "That's a great story."

"Sort of." I smirk, just a bit. "You see, I haven't made it since."

"Why not?"

"Why not? We spent all night making the same dish. We couldn't eat it all! The old man sent me home with about twelve take-home containers full of variations on the same meal. I didn't eat anything else for over a month."

Linguini bursts out laughing.

I'm laughing too. The somber mood is broken. Forget tomorrow. Tonight we have wine, we have laughter, we have food; and each other. This is France, what else could we need? Eat, Drink and Be Merry.

* * *

  _ **Linguini:**_

* * *

Colette is so beautiful when she laughs.

She suddenly stops, like she just thought of something, and she jumps up, rushing to Skinners... to Gusteau's... to  _my_ private office.

I chase after her. She's going through the whole room, pulling open drawers in the desk, then the filing cabinet...

The Gusteau Cardboard Cut-Outs are long gone, Skinner's personal items gone with them. The filing cabinet is largely untouched. We haven't been rid of Skinner long enough to go hunting for legal forms or tax returns and receipts. Little Chef memorized all his recipes so we didn't have to go through the top two drawers...

But she finds what she's looking for. "Ha! I knew it! Not even Skinner would throw this out!"

It's a book. It's a thick leather-bound journal. It's filled with elegant handwriting as she flips through the pages. It's also got lots of clippings taped into the pages, all of them with handwritten notes in the margins...

I stare at it. "Is that..."

"Your father's notebook. Everything he liked about cooking. Every recipe he ever liked in a book or a TV show or something he improvised himself..."

"Wow."

"My recipe for  _Filet de Boeuf ala Bourgeouse_ is in here too. I watched him write it in." She turns the pages with reverence; and then turned, holding it out to me. "It should stay in the family."

I take it gently. I never had anything of my father. "Thank you..."

I flick through it. It's not a journal exactly. More of a collection. Recipes, tips, impressions of restaurants and other people...

And the bookmarked pages... the first page, the centre spread... have pictures of my mother.

I don't have a lot of photos of her from the time before I was born. Candid photos, a row of them together pulling faces in one of those coin operated photo booths...

My father kept these? All this time, and he never knew about me.

Tears fill my eyes. Colette comes over to look. She sees the pictures and smiles. "He travelled the world, Alfredo." She points at the notebook. "And everything he found in it that he loved, he took with him."

I swallow. "Why did they break up?"

Colette looks sad. "I don't know. He talked about her, but never why it ended. I think that he was… I think that maybe she broke his heart." She shrugged.

I manage to nod. _Mom... why didn't you tell him? Why didn't you tell **me**?_

Colette wraps her arms around me and I bury my face in her hair.

It's like my first kiss with Colette; as my senses explode with tastes and smells... I suddenly realized the appeal that aromatic herbs and spices had for Little Chef. I wish I knew them all. I can smell olive oils and mushrooms on her clothes. I can smell the herbs on her skin. I can smell the faint scent of fruits and vegetables from the kitchen, mingling with the scent of her hair...

I don't know how long we stand there, but after a while, her nose starts twitching too. "Oh!" She breaks the hug suddenly. "Time to eat!"

I'm glad to let the emotion relax. There has been too much intensity tonight.

I follow her out to the kitchen and she starts to spoon out the food in the pan. I go over to the rolling restaurant cart and collect some silverware.

"Wait." Colette says suddenly, about to serve. "Let's do this right."

She ducks out into the restaurant for a few minutes, and I hear music start. It's the background music that is played for ambience in the restaurant. Just a soft tune played over small speakers. It almost never gets piped into the kitchen, though the sound system works in here too, for announcements or fire drills. Colette must have found the sound system.

She comes back in a second later with two wine glasses, and a tablecloth.

She sets the cloth over the counter and pours us each a glass from the white wine she used while cooking.

Colette calls it  _Filet de Boeuf ala Bourgeouse_. I call it heaven on a plate.

I've never...  _experienced_ food before. I ate it. I could never cook anything more than a sandwich. Maybe scrambled eggs, but they never really tasted the same twice in a row.

Colette's not a Chef. She's an  _artist_. She  _lives_ in this world. I don't... How can she have any time for me now that... Now that she knows I can't cook.

The thought is like a knife twisting in my stomach. Colette always said to keep your knives sharp.

Colette seems a little sad too. The last meal at Gusteau's is eaten and done. She sees my face and stands up, holding out a hand to me. I take it instinctively and rise.

Colette reaches over and opens the music box. The soft tune washes over us in our little oasis from the world, and she steps closer to me. We are not really dancing, there's not really that much room between counters. I am grateful. If we actually danced, I'd probably break her toes.

But we sway to the music, thinking about tomorrow.

I'm not grieving the restaurant. It might be mine technically, but I can't cook, and I've never owned anything more expensive that my First Aid kit. I've only been here a few weeks. I've lost so many jobs before this one. What's one more? The Penthouse was nice, but everything after meeting Little Chef feels like some whirlwind holiday. Like a dream where I am respected and everybody wants to know me. If the restaurant closes, I'll go back to my  _real_ life...

And I'll lose Colette.

I don't want tomorrow to come. I want to stay in this kitchen, where the lights are low and warm, and Colette is here dancing with me, soft and slow... I want to stay here forever.

I lean into her tightly, and she squeezes me back, both of us don't want to let the moment end.

* * *

_**Colette:** _

* * *

We had to leave eventually. Neither of us wanted to be here when the Health Inspector got his revenge. But I could not sleep. And I could not stay away for long.

But the Health Inspector apparently was swift in his counter-attack. By the time I got there... the Restaurant was already sealed up.

Never in my life have I been more gutted.

It was closed. Closed. Gusteau's was closed by the Health Inspector. For the first time in my life, it wasn't here any more!

"Good morning,  _mademoiselle_."

I turn. Anton Ego is there. I am too numb to speak. I just nod.

He looks at me. "Was there... anyone in there?"

He's asking about _Le Petite Chef_. " _Non_." I whisper.

Ego takes that in with a nod, and we just watch as this army of exterminators turn the whole building over, looking for a plague of tiny people who stepped up when the humans all turned their back on the outcasts.

I look up at the sign. Gusteau's face written in neon. it looks so bizarre when it's not lit up. It didn't look any better when it was, stuck at three stars.

Three stars because we lost one, by tradition, when Gusteau died.

Gusteau died because of this man, dressed as the Grim Reaper he was, standing before me.

I recognize the now familiar feeling of my blood slowly coming to a boil. "Every time you come here, Ego; something terrible happens to everything I love." I snarl.

Ego reacts as though punched. " _Mademoiselle_  Tatou, I was-"

"You  **loved**  what Gusteau made you that night!" I yell furiously. "You burned him alive in that first review just to punish him for the book."

Ego glared straight back. He is not in the least intimidated by me. " _Mademoiselle_ , I am a food critic. The notion that great cooking could be done by  _anyone_ was a joke. More than a joke, it was an insult to those who worked their entire lives to reach any kind of recognition in a much closed community. You of all people should understand this."

"I, of all people?"

"I am not a fool. I know that the world of cooking is run by patriarchs. I can only imagine what you went through to get into the kitchen of a five star restaurant. Now imagine that after working so hard to get where you are, someone you should admire tremendously declares to the world that it's a job that anyone can do." He looked pointedly over his glasses. "In fact, that is exactly what happened. You weren't the least bit hurt?"

I see his point, but I'm still too mad at him. " _Non! Monsieur_  Ego, that was not the point. The point was not to insult the greats, it was to inspire. Gusteau... he could do that. He could inspire." Scorn fills my veins. I point up at the restaurant looming, empty and dead over us. "You were right. It was hard. It was hard to get anyone to give me a chance. It was hard to ignore the rumors that followed me whenever I started in a new kitchen. It was hard to be ignored, and harder still to get noticed. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, earning respect. It's easy to lose once you've got it. Gusteau respected me! He had respect, and he was respectful. You had neither, and you ruined him! You practically killed him! And for what?!"

Silence.

"You're right." He says calmly.

Beat. Just when I thought I couldn't be thrown for another loop. "What?"

"I... I was almost too late to meet my deadline for last night's review. My editor called me this morning to warn me of what was happening. I came by to see if there was anything I could do, to forestall the inevitable. I got here just as they did. The trucks arrived like an army. Men in gas masks just leaping out like a team of commandos, and charging into the restaurant." Ego always seems hunched like a vulture, but now as he hangs his head, he seems to shudder and soften. He produces a copy of today's paper for under his arm. "I was hoping to deliver this to the infamous 'Little Chef.' Alas, he is not at the Penthouse, and neither is  _monsieur_  Linguini."

Alfredo is not at home? I feel a spike go through me. Where did he go? Did he take Little Chef with him?

"That's because it's not mine any more."

We both turn. Linguini is there. He too, looks gutted at the sight of the restaurant. Little Chef is on his shoulder, ears drooping, looking listless.

"Not yours?" I repeat.

"The bank called me this morning. They apparently feel that... uh... The Health Inspector apparently got into it with the law, and they did a quick credit check. That got the bank manager curious, and he heard that the restaurant was closed because of rat infestation, and..."

"They threw you out?" I snap indignantly.

"Month's rent was due tomorrow. I'm unemployed again, so I decided to head out before I was obligated for another month... A months rent at the penthouse is worth six months at my last place."

We see the logic in this.

We all take in the closed restaurant for a while longer. Ego seems to realize that this is something of an emotional moment between Linguini, Little Chef and me.

Ego pulls the paper out from under his arm and hands it to Linguini. "Consider this your legacy from your time here. And consider yourselves to be the legacy of one Chef Gusteau."

Ego's review. My eyes fixate on the newspaper in his hands. So does the Rat. In fact the three of us are practically licking our lips.

Ego notes our reactions. "Well, I have been awake all night. I do believe that there are one or two places in France that brew a decent cup of coffee. I shall return soon. I hope that you will allow me to fetch you both espresso?"

We nod, grateful for the chance to be left alone with the paper.

Ego moves to the curb where his  _chauffeur_  lets him into the jet back limo and its death's head grill. The car starts and speeds away.

We both watch him go, and the second he turns the corner we dive on the paper. There is a brief scuffle between the two of us with Little Chef clinging to Linguini's shoulder, shrieking in rat-speak, yanking on his ears, screeching for us to get it together and just open the damn paper.

But finally, we manage to find the right page. And there before us, is Anton Ego's Last Word

* * *

**In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgement. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read.**

**But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.**

**But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the '** **new'** **. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations; the 'new' needs friends.**

**Last night, I experienced something new. An extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core.**

**In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from** _**anywhere** _ **. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau's, who is, in this critic's opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France.**

**I will be returning to Gusteau's soon,** **hungry** **for more.**

* * *

"Wow." I say. It's all I can think to say. "That's... Anton Ego wrote that? This guy makes Five Star Chefs turn to cold Deli and cheap wine. He wrote that about a _rat_?"

I am immediately aware that I have issued an insult, and turn to the rat on Linguini's shoulder to make amends.

No need. The Little One has passed out with a smile on his snout, flat on his back, tail twitching on Linguini's shoulder.

"I hope you will forgive the dramatic prose."

We turn. Ego has returned, with a tray of take-away coffee cups. There is even a little sample paper cup for Little Chef. Even the sample size is big enough for him to need both paws.

"Decaf." Ego tells Little Chef. "I was unsure how you would react to the caffeine involved in a human sized espresso."

We each take a cup; and Ego and the rat toast each other. We make an odd little ensemble. Two men, a woman, and a rat toasting each other in the street before a stretch limo, parked opposite a restaurant crawling with men in exterminators masks and gas tanks full of poison.

Ego gestures at his car. "May we speak privately?"

The lot of us pile into the car. Dark, plush interior, ever so comfortable. There is a small fold down platform with a cheese and fruit platter.

"So if I may ask, where will you go now?" Ego asks us both. "Do you have any idea?"

I have  _no_ idea. I can't even answer him.

Linguini speaks first. "Well, I can't imagine that the place I used to live has gotten any more expensive. Most of the food I've eaten for the last month came from the leftovers at the restaurant, so I've actually got some savings for a change. There's any number of people willing to let other people do the unpleasant work." Linguini can't look at me. He's seeing his future as going back to being a garbage boy.

"I know it is little consolation,  _Monsieur_." Ego says. "But I am confident that a slop bucket is not in your future. This is Paris. There is always opportunity for those who have passion and talent. Particularly in the field of cooking."

Linguini looks at him. "But I  _can't_  cook... we told you all this last night!"

Ego smiles. "Monsieur Linguini, strange as it may seem, you do have an equal stake in the small one's career as a chef. You see, you are his hands. A rat cannot control just  _anyone_ as Marionette. If they could, I image we would have heard about it long ago." He smiles. It's a bizarre sight. Anton Ego smiling. "You  _are_ two parts of the whole."

I have drifted back into my seat, just a little.

Linguini catches it. "Three!" he says. "Colette's part of this too."

I look up at him in disbelief. He's really making the offer?

Linguini looks at me. "Little Chef and I talked about this last night. It's got a lot to do with guts. It's got a lot to do with family."

The Little Chef is on his shoulder, nodding to that point emphatically.

Ego nods. "Indeed. Some things... courage and family are all we have to our advantage." He taps Linguini's newspaper. "A point that my former masters did not take to heart, alas."

"Former masters?" I repeat.

Ego gives a jaded smirk. "Word of the change in Gusteau's status reached the paper just before I came here this morning. I was told that the review would be pulled in light of... developments." He gestured at the closed restaurant and grinned savagely. "It was a great pleasure to goad those pretentious idiots into arguing with me until  _after_ the morning edition went to print."

The three of us laugh. There's a taste of the revolutionary in every Frenchman. And woman.

"After that they fired me." Ego finished.

Stunned beat.

"Oh, Ego, I'm sorry." Linguini says. Sincerely, I might add.

"Don't be young man. I am glad for it. I look back at my own career, and find that I have taken too much delight in negativity. It is not a healthy way to live." He seems distant a moment, and then gathers himself. "In any case, I think that after tying myself to a closed restaurant, and doing so with such florid prose... I think it's time for a change." He looks at me. "I have spent a sleepless night going a great deal of hard thinking,  _Mademoiselle_. About... my own views. My... presumptions."

"So, what will you do now?" I ask Ego.

"I have sufficient savings. At my stage in life, one does not have to concern oneself with too much fear about the future. However... I think that perhaps I can be of some small use to your own situation, given the role I played in it."

I shook my head. "I owe you an apology,  _Monsieur_. I was angry, but this was  **not**  your fault."

Linguini starts to speak and I spin, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Not yours, either. It was Skinner. He had no right to keep your heritage from you, and he did so illegally, I might add. You could easily sue him!"

Ego raises a long tapered finger. "Ah! If I might interject. I would advise against that. In all likelihood you will never tie Chef Skinner to the tip the Health Inspector received. And, I might add, the accusation was correct. There  _was_ a rat handling food in the kitchen. The fact that he is a master chef has nothing to do with it."

I still picture Skinner turning over a slow spit, maybe a medium flame, but Ego is right. "I know."

"As to the matter of his earlier deception... you may have a case. But with the Restaurant closed, it would hardly be worth the effort, to say nothing of the expense of pursuing the matter." He smirked again. "And there may be some…  _advantages_  to letting the matter rest, letting the new stigma of this place fade from everyone's memory." He primly slices a wedge of brie. "For the future."

Beat.

"For the future?" Linguini repeats. "How?"

Ego smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Read and Review!


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